


Wanna Try Again?

by caitfair24



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, First Dates, Romance, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: After three years, redemption for a blind date gone wrong.





	Wanna Try Again?

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of @itsbuckysworld's Hello Spring Writing Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt was "a re-encounter after three years." If there's interest, I can post my other submissions here, too!

You still think about it sometimes, that night. The simplest of actions can bring memory surging back to the surface -- slipping into your shoes, fixing your makeup; bubbles on your tongue, and not always from champagne; the elegant stretch of a white tablecloth; and the scent of a summer evening, fresh-cut grass and cigarette smoke tangling in a surprisingly satisfying perfume.

A recipe for reminiscence, summoning up a night memorable not for its pleasure, no -- nor yet for its enjoyment, sweetness, or nostalgia. No, when you thought about that night -- nearly, what, three years ago now? -- your face flushed for reasons altogether different than you had anticipated, getting ready for your first blind date.

And now, as you stand in the middle of the bustling coffee shop, you realize that the most potent reminder of all was the cagey, shuffling presence of the man who’d borne awkward witness to it all, holding his own paper cup and bag in hand, looking for all the world as though he would like for the ground to swallow him up, too.

“Uh, hi,” he says.

* * *

  _“There’s no reservations for a James Barnes,” the maitre d’ says crisply, scarcely glancing down at the book._

_He flashes you a small, reassuring grin. “Maybe under ‘Bucky Barnes?’ Or just ‘J. Barnes...’”_

_The woman rolls her eyes -- clearly, a consummate professional. “Sir, there’s no reservations for this evening under this surname. Now, please, there are others in line behind you.”_

_But he’s not done trying._

_“Maybe --”_

_“Sir!”_

_You place one hand on his arm, squeezing in a gesture just on the right side of familiar. “James, maybe we should just try somewhere else,” you say gently, encouragingly. His rising tension is evident, frustration stretching his mouth taut; a self-conscious dusting of pink on his cheeks as the line-up begins to grumble in consensus._

_With a sigh, he turns to leave. A keen, prickling sense of defeat leading the retreat._

* * *

You would never have thought it possible, but he's grown even _better-looking_ in the years since you last saw him. A little broader in the chest, hair brushing his shoulders and tucked beneath a backwards baseball cap that, he explains, he _would_ take off, if he weren’t certain the resulting mess would frighten you away.

There’s a sense of ease in your conversation now that you can’t account for -- where was it _that_ night? But now, he invites you to sit at a table by the window, cuts the blueberry scone down the middle and offers you half. Carefully. Balanced on a napkin and a well-meaning smile.

The usual pleasantries pattern the first few minutes, as you talk about work -- he’s in security now; you’re at the same place -- and other people. Natasha, who’d introduced you back then, and had played middle-man for two weeks while you volleyed plans back and forth, each hoping something would stick. She’s doing fine; he hasn’t seen her in a few weeks; you’d gotten a text from her last night.

And then that silence descends, the one that sparks your memory and causes your stomach to sink in familiar dread.

* * *

  _By the time your heels touch the sidewalk, he’s apologized eight times. “I_ did _make the reservation, Y/n, I promise.” He runs his fingers through his hair, causing it to stand adorably on end, and your face softens as you pause, right there on the sidewalk, forcing a stream of passersby to swell and curve around you._

_“It’s okay, James, honestly. These things happen,” you say reassuringly. “Maybe it just got written down on the wrong night, or someone forgot to actually put it in there. It’s not your fault.”_

_A faint relief flickers in his gaze, but the confident swagger he greeted you with just twenty minutes ago is clearly faded. The wind has been knocked out of his sails, and you’re unsure how to get it back._

_“Where do you wanna go?” he asks lightly, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “Any place around here you like?”_

_This area is populated largely by restaurants of the style you just left -- tablecloths, candlelight, reservations booked weeks in advance. Deliciously tempting aromas -- warm bread, the sweet tang of marinara, even something that  you would swear smelled like fresh waffles -- waft around the pair of you. The night’s still young; you’d planned on being out for a few hours at least. Why not make an adventure of it?_

_If you were being honest, as excited as you’d been to try out the new restaurant, places like just tended to make you nervous. That you’d spill something or accidentally set fire to your menu._

_So you suggest pizza instead. And the grin that lights up his face is_ almost _wonderful enough to ease the hot, stink of mortification that envelops you when you swing your arms wide to gesture enthusiasm and accidentally knock him firmly on the nose. Earning a cuss and a gush of blood._

* * *

 You sip your coffee in a vain attempt to hide the nerves in your stomach, given away by trembling fingers and a tremulous smile. History sits squat and rude right between you, a roadblock that seems to impinge any effort either of you make to clear the air.

When you reach for the sugar shaker at the same time, your hands brush, and instead of the electric sparks you’d known when he’d helped you out of the cab, this time his touch just reminds you of the injury you’d inadvertently inflicted upon him. Your cheeks stain red with the memory.

“So, uh, do you come here a lot?” he asks, since the short well of small talk has now run dry. On to even shallower depths, it seems.

A laugh bursts from you before you can think twice: “Did you just ask if I _come_ _here_ _often_?”

His eyes widen, and so does his smile, when he realizes you’re teasing. “Guess so, but I put my own spin on it,” he says, rubbing a little at his beard. “I only ask ‘cause I just moved down the block. Want to see if I should make it a regular stop.” He looks around -- the space is industrial-chic in style, cosy without being overly warm.

But instead of gushing about your favourite coffee shop, your stomach sinks a little; you’d almost thought he was about to ask you out again. Maybe this time to something way more low-key. Like this. Coffee and a scone. Chit-chat. Not a fancy restaurant, high heels and a dinner jacket. That was for fifth dates -- for anniversaries. Not for two people trying to get to know one another.

Your silence and downcast gaze injects just a _smidge_ more awkwardness in the air, and he starts plucking at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt.

Brilliant.

“It’s good,” you say finally, about four beats too late for it not to feel out of place. “They make really nice, um, muffins. And these little oatcakes. Dipped in chocolate.”

 _Too much detail. Keep it light_.

The problem is, there’s no way to keep it light. Not with those memories hanging over your head.

* * *

_“Are you sure you’re alright?” you ask, handing over another napkin to staunch the flow._

_“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” James wipes a little more under his nose, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. Just in time, too -- your order is up._

_It’s his suggestion to eat the pizza in the park. The light is fading, but it’s not yet fully dark. And there’s something so relaxing about sitting on the bench, not having to worry about fancy tablecloths or expensive dinnerware._

_For the first few minutes, things seem to be going well. You slip into conversation seamlessly, as though you hadn’t just nearly broken his nose. Work, friends, family -- the usual spiel, designed to acclimate yourself to the other, and vice versa._

_When his phone rings with an unfamiliar number, you wave good-naturedly to indicate he should answer it. You’re far too easygoing to be bothered by that, you think, with a self-satisfied smile. Yes, things are going well, very well -- you’re out on a Friday night with a good-looking man and a deliciously greasy pizza --_

_“God, I’m so sorry.” James goes white as a sheet, eyes widening in horror._

_Panic flutters in your stomach. Bad news? Oh, God, you just met the man, you can’t help him through a tragedy --_

_You set aside your pizza, stomach clenching with anxiety and empathy in equal measure as his face runs a gamut of emotions you can’t seem to pinpoint. Fear, certainly; shock, definitely. And maybe, a little...embarrassment?_

_“Yeah, of course, I understand. Completely. Uh, how much i-is that? Okay. Yeah, and the, uh, address?” He nods rapidly, avoiding your gaze._

_“Is, um, everything okay?” you ask uncertainly, looking down at your lap as he finishes the call._

_James releases a heavy sigh, and your eyes dart up to see that he’s flushed again, this time clearly with mortification. “That was the restaurant. The right restaurant. The one I made reservations at.”_

_“Not the one we --”_

_“No.” He runs one hand through his hair, muttering a curse under his breath. “I’m sorry, Y/n. I messed up. The names were really similar, and Nat recommended them both. I guess I made the reservation at the first one and then gave the cab driver the address to the other one.”_

_The restaurant has a missed-reservation fee, one that you offer to split with him, but James firmly refuses. You try to reassure him that it’s fine, an understandable mistake you could easily make yourself -- but he’s humiliated._

_And the night isn’t over yet._

_You work to resume the lighter tone, joking here and there about a coworker who’s supposed to be top of his field but can’t figure out the coffeemaker; something funny Natasha said the other day. Slowly but surely, Bucky relaxes again, easing into the comfort of some gentle flirting. You find yourself inching closer on the bench, entranced by his blue eyes, the scent of his cologne, the solid press of his thighs against yours._

_He moves the pizza box to make more room for you, clearly wanting you just as close as you’d like to be. “Want another slice?” he asks, voice gone just slightly raspy._

_Suddenly nervous, you nod, reaching out the cupped napkin -- stained with grease and tomato sauce -- only to feel, with increasing horror (as it seems to happen, predictably, in slow-motion), the sliding weight of the pizza as he misses your hands, dropping it, cheesy-side down, into the silky expanse of your brand-new dress._

* * *

After nearly half an hour, you’re looking for a way to leave the coffee shop. Not that he isn’t an intoxicating pleasure to be around -- far from it. But he was looking almost too good; his voice was almost too sexy. You couldn’t help but think of all you’d missed out on. His sense of humour, that endearing little half-smile, the easy way he interacted with everyone but you.

You’d messed it all up. Punching him on the nose hadn’t been a great start, but the way you’d screamed out a sharp expletive at the feel of the pizza on your ninety-four dollar dress -- that hadn’t helped either.

The past three years have become a careful study in avoidance, both mentally and physically. You pushed down, as best you could, recollections of that evening, though they were like a sore spot in your memory, a bruise you kept forgetting you had -- until you knocked it afresh.

But now, you read those years in his eyes, in the sheepish smiles he keeps sliding your way. You _missed_ those years, which, admittedly,  actually didn’t make sense. If you were braver, though, what could they have been like?

He seems to be on the same track, as he smoothly, delicately, turns the conversation to that night. Humour nipping at his words, so that you can’t help but relax back into your chair, rather than stiffen in old embarrassment.

“That was quite the night, huh?”

It’s the question that’s been behind this entire conversation. Ever since you turned around, coffee in hand, and made the connection between the tall, bearded man in front of you and the guy who’d come to pick you up in that white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled sinfully halfway up his forearms.

Your eyes flick up to meet his, over the expanse of four empty cups of coffee and a few errant crumbs -- and a well of deep-seated mortification, simmering steadily over the past three years.

 _Agree with him_ , you think. Laugh. Smile. Shrug it all off and try again. The fact that you’ve each gotten through two coffees without spilling something or injuring each other means that already, this short encounter is _miles_ ahead of your first fumbling attempt to get together.

But there’s something, something else. The big one. The one that you've all but entirely suppressed, shoved away somewhere dark within your memory. The one that blooms now, under the warmth of his apologetic gaze, as he rubs the back his neck and waits for your contribution.

“I didn’t put them there,” you blurt, face flaming and hands tightening around the empty cup. “Really. My, uh, my roommate did, it was all supposed to be a joke. I didn’t really think we’d...you know...”

* * *

_The ride back to your building is silent. Tense. A few curious glances from the cab driver, who clearly thinks you two are fighting. “Don’t go to bed on it, eh?” he says affably, as James hands him a twenty._

_You lead the way up the front steps, into the elevator, casting about for something to say, something that will keep his guilt-ridden gaze from finding the large stain on the front of your dress, the one that will never, ever come out. Cheese, grease, and tomato sauce. A permanent mark of just how strangely this evening had unfolded._

_If only you’d bought a red dress, you think inanely._

_The air between you is charged with uncertainty, and it prickles along your skin, tripping lightly, furtively. Reminding you with each step closer to your door that this night has not gone at all as you’d planned. Poor James had stopped at the right restaurant after you’d disposed of the pizza boxes. While he had stumbled through a second apology to the waitstaff and paid to make up for the missed reservation, you’d dashed to the ladies’ washroom and done your best to soak the stain._

_Which merely resulted in you leaving the restaurant looking simultaneously as though you couldn’t eat by yourself, nor manage to make it to the bathroom on time._

Fantastic.

_“Well” -- you try to infuse some brightness to your tone -- “this is me.” You point needlessly to the door in front of you. James nods, looking from you to the door and back again._

_Should you invite him in? You’d certainly been hoping to do so, just for coffee. Nothing more, not yet. A nice, comfortable rounding-off to a successful date, preferably focused on planning a subsequent one. In order to ensure privacy, you’d even slipped your roommate twenty-five bucks and told her to go to a movie or something._

_But now? When you’d literally drawn blood?_

_One look back up at those blue eyes, though, dripping with apology and rue, and your mind was made up. “Coffee?” you asked, fumbling in your purse for your keys._

_A grin bursts on his face, visibly buoyed by relief. “Yeah, that sounds great, doll.”_

Doll?

_Oh, God -- pizza-handling aside, the man might actually be perfect._

_You’re so flustered by his flirtatious tone that your hands forget how to function, clawing fruitlessly in the bottom of your bag. He reaches over to steady it for you, and that’s when it happens --_

_Again, in agonizing slow-motion._

_The purse makes a grateful half-arc through the air, tumbling lightly to the floor between you. Not bad, not embarrassing. Nobody’s walking away from_ this _covered in tomato sauce. But the real tragedy, the grand finale to an evening of quiet embarrassment, that spills -- in fourteen separate elements -- across the welcome mat._

_Slippery in their foil packages. Bright as an accusation._

_You fight the distinct urge to vomit._

_James is already down on the floor, squatting to retrieve the various items -- wallet, keys, sunglasses, pack of gum -- when he realizes what his hand is brushing. “Oh,” he says, a note of shock hollowing his voice. “I, uh...”_

_Your veins are hot, flooded with sickly chagrin. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes because it’s too much, it’s too far gone, there’s no coming back from_ this. _You leave the little packages on the floor, take the other items, slam the door in his face._

_And spend the next three years pretending it never happened._

* * *

In retrospect, it all may have been a bit of an overreaction. The mature thing to do would have been to explain, right in the moment: your roommate was a bit of a prankster, and had been teasing you about going on your first date in months.

The morning after, he’d sent you a text. Then Nat had started calling, assuring you that things weren’t as bad as you thought they were. But by the time, nearly two weeks later, that you’d finally felt you’d accepted the residual twinges of your embarrassment enough to actually talk to James about it, you worried it had already been too long. That you’d missed your window.

But he laughs now. Throws his head back and laughs, eyes crinkling with the force of it. And the three years melt away. Fade into nothing.

“Look, I get it, doll,” he says, wiping at his eyes as his breathing slows. “I felt _so_ bad. The restaurant, your dress, and then the look on your face when you closed the door...I thought I’d screwed it all up with you.”

“Yeah, but I was the one who punched you in the nose,” you argue, startling the nearby barista, who levels a strange look in your direction. “And then I...my purse...”

He leans forward, reaching for your hand across the surface of the table. This time, when your skin touches his, those sparks _do_ erupt -- tiny, but resolute, enough to send a shiver down your spine, in combination with the rich scent of his cologne, increasing in intensity the closer he gets. “Y/n, I didn’t mind. It was  cute, actually. _Both_ things.”

You bite at your lip, eyes meeting his, stomach fluttering as his thumb strokes over your knuckles. “Do you...um...would you wanna try again?” you ask softly, voice brimming with audible hope.

“I think we just did.” He gestures to the coffee, the scone. The now nearly-empty coffee shop. How long have you been here? “But I’m definitely willing to try a third one. Dinner? At the right restaurant this time?”

A grin, as mischievous as you can muster, when you’re so damn nervous -- “As long as you promise not to throw any food at me, James.”

“Deal. But you’ve gotta keep your fists to yourself. I’m a gentle soul, sweetheart.”

Your laughter firmly smashes the ice, shattering three years in a peal of relieved mirth. And it’s gone. It doesn’t matter. The wasted time will hurt, always, but now there’s this -- James’ hand in yours, absolution on the air, past regrets fading into private jokes.

And the best -- the secret that poked and fizzled in your brain during the years apart -- the fulfillment and achievement of having truly made a connection: “And, doll? Why don’t you call me Bucky?”


End file.
